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As much as I was dreaming of a job at the newspaper, in my dresser drawer, hidden beneath underwear that Jill had dismissed as 'too married' was a manuscript I'd been working on for years. A real pot-boiler that will fly off the shelves one day, and get me into more parties like this, without a tray in my hand. But for now, I had champagne to serve. Jill's kitchen staff was hard at work and the scents of roasting meats and browning rolls drifted on briny sea air perfumed by roses and honeysuckle. In the drawing room, a band played an old Bruce Cockburn tune while waiters circulated with hor's d'oeuvres, and Mad Rose and Hot Al received their guests. "Jane, darling, marvelous to see you," Madelyn said, offering her cheek to be kissed. "You must try one of these." Madelyn looked regal and poised as she plucked a puffed something from one of the passing trays and popped it into her mouth -- making it possible to believe that turning 40 held nothing at all to fear. Licking her fingers in a manner not lost on Al, she held out a hand to the next woman in line. "Peggy, sweetheart, it's been ages." "Madelyn." Her maid-of-honour and personal assistant, Hannah Desrosiers, breezed through the door, making a beeline for the bride. "We've got a security breach," Hannah said when she reached Madelyn's side. Hannah was a cute little blond from London, Ontario, all of five feet tall, with big blue eyes and a sweet bow mouth -- the kind of woman I usually dislike on sight and hate myself for it afterward. But at five-nine with dark hair and eyebrows that I swear have an agenda of their own, I have never been what you'd call cute. Jill assures me I have an earthy sensuality men will find irresistible once I loosen up a bit and remember how to have fun, flirt a little. I don't know if she's right or not, but after six months of celibacy, I'm ready to find out. "It's Donny Robinson," Hannah was saying. Madelyn sighed and took another hor's d'oeuvre from a passing waiter. "I'm not surprised. The man has been haunting me ever since I rejected his last manuscript." Now, I had promised myself I wouldn't linger. Just grab a tray and take my place among the other uniforms at the party. But she was talking about Donny Robinson, the man who made Winnipeg sound like the most exciting city on earth, a real hotbed of intrigue and passion. He was a rare gem, a Canadian treasure, an Oprah pick in the making. How could anyone turn down anything by Donny Robinson?
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